Simple.
Rival kingdoms joined in a covenant against a shared predator. An elegant solution to an impossible blood oath. And, without so much as lifting a single finger, Thalos could return Sirens to the sea under the guise of folding to the demands of his own people pressing him for change.
It would be precarious, certainly.
The timing would have to be flawless, of course.
But this was the art Thalos did best.
And what else were his scholars for but to speak the truth as they saw it?
Thalos found them overseeing the reef breakers. Pestering the work of artisans, bickering over gradients and bedrock, while a Siren killed Abysssari ancients and declared herself Queen of the Black Sea.
Absurd old guppies.
“The angle iswrong,” Pelagius said, wheedling and petulant. Ancient, tattered fins spread in a bristling fan meant to display his irritation. “The adequate drainage requires a fourteen-degree anchor or?—”
"The bedrock isshale,” the foreman returned. Scales flushing with an exasperated, shimmering heat. “Made porous by the toxins in the anoxic tide. It cannot support the weight."
Thalos hovered above them. Observing unseen from his position.
And then, voice laced with the weight of his station, he said, “Leave us,” in a tone that permitted no argument.
The reef breakers scattered.
Whirling, the scholars spun in the current to face him. All three going still.
“There’s been a development,” Thalos said without preamble. Waiting only long enough to ensure they were alone before he continued. “The Siren killed a Threnakar scholar. An ancient. One of Nyxaroth's delegation."
Letting the words settle, watching the shock filter through each of their minds, Thalos waited.
Jaw working, grinding side to side, Pelagius’ flaking scales shivered. "The scouts reported as much, though in not so many words. Threnakar’s envoy emerged from the Black Sea lacking one of their number. But… to think himslain?” he spluttered. “Preposterous. We assumed the savages were engaging in territorial violence. Trench filth turning on their own."
"Assumption," Thalos murmured, head tilted. "An… understandable error, given the context."
"An Abyssariancient," Syrathis whispered, clouded, amber eyes growing wide. Rimmed in white. "Killed by a Siren."
Fins stiff, Vorthane said nothing. Offered only a frown deep enough to obscure his eyes as he sank into thought.
“In the Gauntlet of Tides,” Thalos said, dragging each syllable out. Careful, as if considering. As if suffering some profound discovery. “She struck me with what I thought might have been the Queen’s lightning. But”—he laughed, shaking his head—"it’s been lost for generations. Thought to be extinct, as I understood it.”
Barbles shivering in the current, Syrathis’ spines clacked. “The Korrides line lost that manifestation three generations past—buried under genetic decay before the war."
"Perhaps not…lost," Vorthane argued, breaking his silence. "Nyxarion created her. It would follow that the trait was merely dormant. Waiting for the right conditions to be expressed.”
"That creature isn’t worthy of…” Pelagius bristled, spluttering. “It is… anabomination. To suggest it capable of containing a power such as the Queen’s lightning?"
At this, Thalos allowed himself a low chuckle. Something touched with a conspiratorial edge. “The power she struck me with in the Gauntlet was enough to hand Nyxarion the win, Pelagius. And if she’s progressed since then? Enough to kill an ancient?” Fingers touching his ribs, where his scars were fresh and raised, Thalos shook his head.
Eyes gleaming with the sheen of something calculated and devious, for he didn’t need Cymareth for this battle.
Curiosity was the blade pressed to their throats. Their own bottomless, covetous thirst for knowledge turned back upon them.
And he watched it ripple through their weathered faces.
The greed.
Dressed as studious intrigue.